


it's familiar, but not too familiar (but not too not familiar)

by taakos



Category: Marvel (Comics), X-Men (Comicverse)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-19
Updated: 2019-04-19
Packaged: 2020-01-16 07:18:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18516592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/taakos/pseuds/taakos
Summary: Quentin Quire becomes the Phoenix on a Monday. It's inconvenient, to say the very least, and not just because he was suggested (read: ordered) to go on a coming-of-age road trip in interstellar space by a scary, practically all-powerful not-bird entity.





	it's familiar, but not too familiar (but not too not familiar)

**Author's Note:**

> big thanks to mikey for so graciously beta-reading!! and thanks to john roderick (of the long winters fame) for preemptively not suing me because i used the lyrics from "(it's a) departure" off the album "putting the days to bed" as a title. i'm not sorry for the goof

Quintavius Quirinius Quire (AKA Kid Omega, AKA Your Best, Most Beloved Twitter Follow, AKA The Proud Bane Of Many A People’s Existence) becomes the host of the Phoenix Force on a Monday. This, by itself, doesn’t mean anything. Coincidentally (read: very much on purpose), Dr. Charles Xavier (AKA Professor X, AKA Mutie Neoliberalism In Decrepit Form, AKA Pain In Quentin Quire’s Nice Ass) died two weeks ago. Of natural causes (read: he was old as shit). Unfortunately.

The whole affair was very melodramatic. Xavier’s death and the following events, that is. Quentin attended the funeral, as well as the wake, though there were some conditions from the Mutant School Authorities (Storm and Wolverine).

* * *

Quentin Quire, while attending the mourning rituals of Dr. Charles Xavier, was under no circumstances allowed to:  
— Start a riot.  
— Talk shit about the dead (the aforementioned Dr. Charles Xavier).  
— Some other stuff, probably, but he started tuning them out due to boredom and just nodded with his best Solemn, Respectful expression.

He likely looked more suspicious (or apathetic) than anything, so the MSA just let him off with a vaguely (read: clear-cut) threatening warning.

“Don’t disrupt the Professor’s funeral, Quire. Just don’t. There will be consequences if you do and I promise you won’t like them.” Logan glowered, scowl firmly in place.

Ororo (who could be okay, sometimes, bless her) snorted lightly at her friend’s belligerence, shaking her head. “Just be chill during the services, Quentin. That’s all we’re asking.”

The teenager squinted skeptically at her use of “be chill”, as it felt very “How do you do, fellow kids?”, but nodded. “You got it, Ms. Monroe.”

Storm was a capable enough mutant that he felt it was best not to piss her off. Not all the time, at least.

Logan let out a noise that honestly could’ve meant anything, but Quentin interpreted it as “kids these days, so disrespectful” or a pre-murder snarl.

He chose to go with the latter, knowing some battles were worth more than others, and wisely walked away. “Be seein’ you, Logan.”

The man made another gruff noise, but didn’t attempt to gut him. Job well done, all things considered.

* * *

Anyway, Quentin went to the funeral. It was whatever; he always found mourning in response to things like this odd. Plus, the man was old as dirt. A Chicago breeze could’ve made him keel over. A surprise party. Toast springing up out of the toaster. A loud cell phone ringing suddenly. You get the idea.

All of it sounded like a Mutant Onion headline: “Local Old Man With One Foot Already In The Grave Dies, Mutants Everywhere Shocked”. It was funny, though he absolutely didn’t say that aloud to anyone. He had manners, thank you very much.

He tweeted it, instead, as one does with less than broadly socially acceptable jokes. @QQQ (how he acquired the specific username, he’ll never tell) was a playground of all the things he couldn’t say for fear of even more ostracization. Not that he was necessarily helping himself. At least some extremely online Twitter people liked him.

What’s important is that Quentin, an admittedly conceited young adult, made approximately three phone calls, cashed in a favor, and had a custom Gucci suit designed and shipped to him in a day and a half. It cost a silly, honestly monstrous amount of money. His very loud, inner communist wanted to kick his own ass for it. Which, you know— fair enough. That self-loathing makes sense.

However! If he had anything, it was resources, and goddamn it if he wasn’t going to put them to use. And, boy, it was the best purchase he’s ever made in his bougie fucking life.

It was cotton and dyed in a Vantablack knockoff (i.e. not an irritant that could kill a person in large quantities, probably). The tie and handkerchief (which are good and a valid accessory option, thank you very much) were crimson red, almost as if they were bloodied. The buttons were made of small, similarly crimson Rhodonite garnets. The suit’s lining, the pièce de résistance, as it were, was ivory white silk.

He made it into every major fashion publication in an instant, of course. Most of them already had a Triple-Q Fashion Watch section dedicated somewhere either in-print or digitally. The Twitter stan accounts lost their damn minds. It’s understandable, really. Because he’s a fashion icon, even when attending funerals of people he could care less for.

* * *

The point is that Xavier died, like, two weeks ago and people (read: mutants and humans alike) are being more annoyingly weird than usual. It didn’t help that the broad spectrum of media outlets were fawning over the newly-buried corpse. _TIME_ gave the old son of a bitch another cover, mourning “one of the greatest heroes of our time”. Which is interesting because paternalistic anti-mutant rhetoric is historically not that difficult to find in past issues. 

Now, the telepath hung around the X-Men for a while. His most formative years, even. He was used to bizarre shit. That’s just another Tuesday to him; no problem. He can usually just ignore them unless he was more directly effected by said shit.

This was different, though.

You see, Quentin Quire, prodigy, genius, arguably well-liked individual according to some, etc., turned nineteen about two months ago. He hasn’t lived at the school or really interacted with anyone from there that since before his eighteenth birthday. He got into college early, of course (not that he necessarily had to attend a post-secondary education institution; it was the social aspect that his pleasant therapist was more concerned with), at seventeen-ish. NYU wanted to lick his Doc Martens, and who was he to stop them?

They (the well-educated bootlickers) gave him a full-ride, as institutions wont to do with rich kids. Instead of paying his own tuition, because they refused to take his money for reasons he didn’t care enough to investigate, he paid for (a hundred or so) young, not obscenely rich mutants’ attendance fees. It was the least he could do without actively trying to start a revolution. Not that that’s a bad idea.

For the first time in the teen’s admittedly (socially) rough life, school was actually good for him. His therapist, Dr. Kasim (“Please just call me Bassem, Quentin.”) said he was “blooming like a beautiful rose in the springtime” and then apologized briefly for the awkward cliche, which made the telepath cackle for a good two minutes. He had friends (mostly fellow radical muties; sue him), his professors thought he brought interesting perspectives to discussion (which seemed like a nice way of saying he was a genius, but totally off his shit), and not many people seemed to hope he died in a garbage fire. Just a few of them did, which, historically-speaking, is pretty fucking solid, if you ask him.

Dumb, annoying, weird X-Men shit sometimes came along to bother his general vicinity, and he handled that with about as much grace as he could manage (read: he said “you’re welcome” for his voluntary aid, then told them to fuck off back to Greymalkin). It more or less worked out fine. For him, at least.

So, he hasn’t lived at the institute in, like, two years. Everyone seemed content with that. Quentin was (mostly) grown up, gone, and perfectly capable of fending for himself. He was only slightly bitter (read: passionately, really, very bitter) about just how much the kids, and teachers even, wanted him gone ASAP. They could at least pretend to miss him, the heathens.

But, no— Professor “Old As Dinosaur Bones” X had to go and bite the fucking dust like the coward he was. What a nightmare.

* * *

Which brings us up to now: Quintavius Quirinius Quire’s (AKA The Motherfucking Phoenix) time has finally arrived. He’s overjoyed, sincerely (he might’ve cried a bit), but fuck him if the timing isn’t inopportune. Especially since the Phoenix Force (AKA Chaos-Bringer, AKA Your New Space-Time-Ordained Best Friend) was on its particular brand of bullshit. Like it always was.

“You want me to do _what_?” He asked, visibly incredulous, sitting slumped in a chair in the White Hot Room.

In the form of a phoenix, as it wont to be these days, it spoke with tens of voices, harmonious (yet a little grating on the ears, if you asked him). “You will leave the Earth, Quintavius, and embrace our combined newfound power outside this place that burdens you so. It need not be forever, but you will grow further without the oppressions on this planet. Interstellar travel is in your hands, now.”

He opened and closed his mouth like a fish for a few moments. “But I have school?”

The excuse was so weak that the Phoenix Force itself fucking guffawed. Like, a full-on, genuinely amused guffaw. “Quintavius.”

The moment was thoroughly ruined. He blamed Charles Xavier. The bastard.

The teenager pressed his palms into his eye sockets, then looked up to glower at it. It was a half-hearted glare, honestly.

The entity blinked its blazing, seemingly infinitely deep eyes.

Quentin hissed with frustration, unable to think of a legitimate argument against its plan. “Fucking— fine! Fine! You got yourself a deal, you mean space bird!”

It cocked its head curiously at the seemingly fond insult, but its flames grew hotter, whiter in triumph. It telepathically radiated smugness.

“I can’t believe I’m going on a fucking interstellar space road trip to find myself. Jesus Christ. It’s fucking _Monday_.” The mutant mumbled to himself, slumping further in the chair.

The Phoenix Force smiled. Telepathically, at least.

* * *

It was a solid start to Quentin’s tenure as the Phoenix, for sure. Things were going to be fine.

Probably? 

The odds were 60-40, at best.

**Author's Note:**

> quick q/a bc comics is bullshit:
> 
> q: what continuity is this?
> 
> a: the one where i do what i want AKA earth-42069. i'm very actively choosing to ignore quentin's pre-secret wars canon, since it's dumb and bad (excluding maybe the riot, but that's it!!!) + having the events of gen x, jean grey's new, improved bullshit, and the shi'ar-asgardian war take place before quentin turns eighteen so my boy can go to college and be a real person. wca doesn't happen, fuck you
> 
> q: quentin's never referred to as a young man/teenage boy?
> 
> a: he's nonbinary. and bi. i don't make the rules
> 
> q: how can he be a commie while being rich? guillotine, etc?
> 
> a: if you can suspend your disbelief enough to be okay with hot pink psychic shotguns, you can do the same with this. it's not my fucking fault writers at marvel seem to think wealth is a legitimate personality trait
> 
> if there's enough interest to fuel my terrible, lurking muse that haunts my every step, a sequel (or threequel, even) could be made. thanks for reading!!


End file.
